Again With Me
by fireweed15
Summary: Five Times Russia Said "Do Svidaniya," and One Time He Said "Privet" - An exploration of the relationship between a nation and the last of his ruling families [Complete]
1. Odin – один

_Early September, 1914_

"You look so handsome, Ivan Rossiyavich."

"Thank you, Tsarina," Russia said sincerely as the woman to whom he spoke, Alexandra Romanova, adjusted the lay of his scarf over his uniform. This was the last he would see of her, of the family, for many months, and the love he had in his heart for her, for the children, allowed him to consent to the way they fussed over him—how the girls offered him knitted gloves and sweaters and socks and signed icons of orthodox saints, how Tsarina Alexandra worried for him and spoke to him as though she had borne him herself.

Of course, he would have consented to such treatment anyway.

"We'll pray for you, Cousin Vanya," one of the girls, fifteen year old Marie, promised.

"Thank you, Marie Nicholaevna," he replied.

"You'll write us often?" This was the eldest of the four girls, Olga. She tried her hardest to be grown up, but the worry in her eyes reminded Russia of her age, a mere nineteen years.

"As often as I am able," he promised.

"You'll stay safe?" Tatiana asked. She was seventeen and trying so hard to be brave like her elder sister and mother.

Russia opened his mouth to offer his reassurances when Anastasia, thirteen and full of life, on the cusp of growing up, spoke for him. "Of course he'll stay safe! Cousin Vanya will come home a hero!"

He smiled warmly at her. "If Anastasia Nicholaevna says it will be done, then who am I to say otherwise?" Russia replied with a slight bow to the youngest Imperial Princess.

"I wish I could go with you," the youngest, and only boy in the room, said longingly.

Russia crossed the room to kneel in front of where the young boy sat. Only ten and how he longed to grow up, to fill his father's shoes. "Ahh, Alexei Nicholavich," Russia said warmlty. "Your day will come—and when it does, you will be the greatest soldier in all the Russias."

"You promise?" Alexei asked somberly.

"I could never tell my tsarievich untruths," Russia confirmed, mussing the boy's hair. His heart soared when Alexei smiled and laughed at the gesture.

There was a polite knock on the door, and Alexandra bid the person on the other side to enter. A young lance corporal stepped into the room and bowed to the royal family before saluting Russia. "Captain Branginsky."

Russia returned the salute. "Yes?"

"Sir, the train is leaving within the hour," the corporal announced. "We leave whenever you are ready."

"Wait for me," Russia commanded. Was it truly so late, that his time here had drawn to a close?

"Yes sir," the corporal replied, saluting once more before making a discrete exit.

Russia turned to the family, his eyes sad. "I'm afraid my time here is over."

The four daughters all embraced him, crying quietly and pleading for his safe return, something he promised them in earnest. He knelt to embrace the tsarevitch, and stood to turn into a warm embrace from the tsarina, who kissed his cheeks and promised that he had their prayers. After several moments, he broke away, allowing her to fuss over his scarf once more before going to the door. He paused in the doorframe to look at them all once more.

"You're going to miss your train, Ivan Rossiyavich," Alexandra said softly. Everything unsaid hung in the air like fog.

"You have my word, I will return," he promised. _Do svidaniya._1"

* * *

1 Do svidaniya - Goodbye


	2. Dva – два

_2 January 1917_

Russia had left for only an hour, for a haircut, and when he came back, it felt as though hell had been unleashed on the palace. His demands of the servants—_ Chto sluchilos_ʹ_? Eto Aleksey Nikolayevich?_1—yielded little results. Finally, someone told him something of use. "_Eto tsaritsy_2."

The thought of something being wrong with the tsarina worried Russia almost as much as the thought of something being wrong with the tsarevitch, and he wasted no time in appearing outside her chambers. "_Tsaritsa , eto Ivan Rossiyavitch . Mogu li ya voyti?_3

A hoarse call of "come in" met Russia's ears, and he stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind him. "Tsarina, what troubles you?"

The tsarina's eyes were rimmed in red, and she clutched a damp handkerchief. For a moment, words seemed to elude her; Russia quietly sat next to her, and she wrapped him in a tight embrace, her shoulders shaking with silent cries. "Oh, Ivan Rossiyavitch…!"

"Tsarina, please—_v chem delo_4?"

"Our friend, Father Grigori," she said, puling back enough to look at Russia. "He's—a terrible thing has happened, Ivan Rossiyavitch!"

Russia's brow furrowed slightly at the mention of the family's friend. "What has happened?"

"Father Grigori is dead," she moaned. "Murdered, Ivan Rossiyavitch!"

Russia gave a small start. "_Vy uvereny_? Are you certain?" he asked, pulling back to look the tsarina in the eye.

"They found him," she answered, trying to keep her voice level (and having minimal success), "in… in the Neva." More tears spilled onto her cheeks.

"My apologies for the loss of Father Grigori," Russia said softly, rubbing comforting circles on her back.

"Who will heal Baby now?" she asked, sounding almost lost. "Who would murder a man of God, Ivan Rossiyavitch?"

"I couldn't say, Tsarina," he said softly. Man of God… _Hmm_. Did Tsarina know what was said about Grigori Rasputin, or did she chose to ignore it in favor of her son's health? True, the tsarevitch seemed to do better after being paid visits by him, but Tsarina hadn't seen what Russia had. She hadn't been in a small tavern, watching over the edge of a glass of vodka, as her friend Rasputin imbibed heavily and tempted young women who knew no better, nor had she exchanged the heated words he and the "holy man" had in private, away from hers and the Tsar's ears.

These of course were thoughts he kept to himself, not even daring to confide them to the pages of his diary. "How may I help my tsarina?"

"I would like… I would like to be alone for a moment," she answered, taking a deep breath and swiping at her eyes with the handkerchief. "Thank you for coming to see me, Ivan Rossiyavitch."

Russia stood and bowed. "Of course, Tsarina. Do svidaniya."

1 What happened? Is it Alexei Nicholavitch?

2 It's the tsarina.

3 Tsarina, it's Ivan Rossiyavitch. May I come in?

4 What's the matter?


	3. Tri – три

_15 March 1917_

All of Petrograd was in arms, and cries of _abdication_ filled the streets. Russia didn't dare venture out of the palace walls—he sincerely doubted the people would harm him, the personification of their nation, but they didn't know that. They only knew he was close to the family.

He knew only that he wanted—no, needed—to see Nicholas. The door was open, and Russia let himself in, pausing in the middle of the room to kneel. He didn't speak; if the world had been upended, if what the people were saying was true, what exactly could he say?

The tsar noticed his presence and indicated he stand. The pair, a nation and his ruler, stood in silence for several moments before Russia broke the silence—"Your Imperial Majesty, the people are saying—"

"Abdication?" Nicholas asked, glancing out the window.

"…Yes," Russia confirmed. "I had to ask for myself. Is it true?"

"It is," the tsar (_former_ tsar, a cold little voice in the back of Russia's mind noted) confirmed.

"With all respect," Russia began, bowing slightly, "did you… give the throne to the tsarevitch?" He couldn't bring himself to say the word.

"I couldn't," Nicholas admitted, shaking his head. "He's too young."

"Alexei Mikhailovitch was tsar at sixteen," Russia gently reminded. "Is twelve so much younger?"

"If he were a healthy boy, no," Nicholas replied, seating himself at his desk. He looked weary. "You understand we will no doubt be exiled?"

The thought occurred to Russia, but to answer in the affirmative made his throat dry; he could only nod. "Alyosha could not last without us."

"Then who—"

"My brother," Nicholas answered. "Michael Alexandrovich."

Russia nodded, prepared to say that yes, he was a good choice, when Nicholas spoke again. "Is this God's will?"

"I cannot say, Your Imperial Majesty," Russia admitted. "I know only what is true of myself, and that is that I will remain in service to you and your family."

Nicholas smile was warm but tired. "Your loyalty is unwavering, Ivan Rossiyavitch." Anything else he may have said was cut off by the arrival of a group of harried looking advisors.

This was not a place Russia felt he should be at the moment. "I'll see myself out," he announced, bowing once more. "_Do svidaniya_."


	4. Chetyre – четыре

_August 1917_

Word was given that they were being moved. Things were hastily packed, but much was being left behind. The family, once so proud, was gathered in an empty sitting room, all of them trying to be brave, but their eyes betraying everything they didn't dare say. Russia knew the feeling. So much of what he wanted to say as he was being dragged about with all the revolting was being bottled up, he felt like he was going to go mad.

Seeing the family—_his_ family—would certainly make him feel better. He closed the door behind him as he stepped into the sitting room. All of them (save Alexandra and Alexei, which worried him) swarmed him, kissing his cheeks and embracing him in greeting. Russia returned these gestures and turned his attentions to Alexandra and Alexei. He embraced and kissed both.

"Ivan Rossiyavich, where are they taking us?" Alexandra asked.

"I cannot say," Russia admitted. As much freedom as he had—"_Vy ne nakhodites_ʹ_ pod domashnim arestom , Ivan Rossiyavitch_1," and how it _burned_ Russia to hear them call him by his own name!)—he elected to stay close at hand. "What little I have heard makes me think somewhere in Siberia." The worried looks on their faces made Russia hurry to reassure them. "I'll be coming along—I cannot travel with you, but I promise that I will see you as often as I can."

"Thank you, Ivan Rossiyavitch," Nicholas said, speaking on the family's behalf.

"Think nothing of it," Russia reassured them. "They'll be coming to collect you soon—but know I will be shortly behind you." He pressed quick kisses against their damp cheeks, and felt tears streak his own face. "_Do svidaniya_."

1 You're not under house arrest, Ivan Rossiyavitch.


	5. Pyatʹ – пять

_16 July 1918_

As he promised, Russia followed them. He was right about Siberia—first to Tobolsk, where they stayed until 30 April, when they were moved to Yekaterinburg. But not before tragedy—thought Russia would never say it to the boy's face, Alexei's foolish decision to ride a sled down stairs. Knowing how sick the poor boy was nearly made Russia ill with worry himself, and he remained behind to see Alexei (in a wheelchair!) and the three youngest daughters be moved safely to rejoin their family.

Visits were few and far between in Tobolsk; now, they were stretched even farther apart. Today, though—oh today, Russia had to see them again. He was warned his visit would be a brief one—ten minutes to say everything he needed to, and no mischief.

Ten minutes went by so quickly, and before Russia knew it, he was preparing to leave. "Keep us in your prayers, Ivan Rossiyavich," Alexandra said.

"Every day, I pray for you," he reassured her, squeezing her hands. He turned to address all of them. "I am doing everything I can for you—" Smuggled bread, eggs, cheese; words of encouragement; so much more than could be listed—"but I cannot say when I will return to this place."

Nicholas disappeared into another room for a moment, and returned with something in his hand." Then keep this," he said, pressing the item, wrapped in linen, "as a reminder of us."

Russia looked from the thing in his hand to Nicholas for a moment before carefully unwrapping it. Sitting in his palm was a medal, its red and white ribbon hanging from a gold star; a golden bar and disc kept the end of the ribbon from fraying. He drew in a sharp breath and tried to rewrap the gift.. "I can't—"

"Please." Nicholas closed Russia's fingers around the medal and pushed the nation's hands back to his chest, insistent. "After all you've done for us, you deserve so much more."

Russia clenched his hand around the medal; the star's five points dug into the flesh of his palm, but he hardly cared. "I to zhe samoye dlya vas—tysyachu raz1."

Heavy booted footsteps met their ears, and Russia hastily put the medal in his coat pocket. "Etot ublyudok Yurozsky2," he hissed before carrying on as thought nothing unusual had taken place. If harm came to this family, Russia knew he could never live with himself, and suspected it would drive him mad. He hugged and kissed them all, stroked the children's hair, his eyes promising what he couldn't say aloud, I'll come back for you.

He was presenting a façade of readiness by the time the bastard Yurozsky had come to collect him (would he ever be ready to leave this family?). "Do svidaniya, Romanovs."

* * *

1 And the same to you—a thousand times over.  
2 That bastard Yurovsky.

Please note the date, and nothing will convince me this isn't how Russia got his medal.


	6. Plyus Odin – Плюс один

_17 July 1998_

The weather was clear and beautiful. The sun smiled on them, and the sky was never bluer.

It was a terrible day for a funeral.

Russia stepped into the belly of the plane that had carried the reasons for today's ceremonies, and was struck with a single thought: _Groby tak maly._

What else did Russia expect? What had been found was barely enough to truly constitute a "body," for one person, let alone six… He walked past them, laying his hand on each coffin in turn and whispering the names as he went. _Alexei Nicholavich… Anastasia Nicholaevna… Marie Nicholaevna… Tatiana Nicholaevna… Olga Nicholaevna… Nicholai Alexandrovich…_

He paused at the last one, the top shrouded in a yellow cloth, one depicting the Romanov crest, a double-headed eagle. "Oh, Tsarina…" He knelt at the head of the coffin, feeling the dark green material of a new uniform stretching in protest, and removed the stiff cap he wore. "_Moy skromnyy izvineniya_…"

He could see her gentle smile and almost feel her cool hand on his cheek. _"Why do you apologize?"_

_"I didn't protect you,"_ he would reply, bowing his head. _"I broke my promise."_

_"All is forgiven, Vanya,"_ he could hear her reply. He clenched his eyes shut, and a few tears slipped out, at the thought of hearing his tsarina call him by such a sweet, maternal address.

"How I've missed you these eighty years," Russia mumbled. _How my heart has ached, how my throat burned with unwept tears._ "I can only pray I've made you proud." He lifted his head to look at the row of coffins. "All of you."

Footsteps behind him made him straighten up, hastily brushing away tears before turning to see who had entered; it was another pallbearer. "_Gotoy li vy nachat', Ivan Romanovitch?_" he asked.

Russia nodded and took up one of the bars at the base of the coffin, his final act of service to the Romanov house, and to Alexandra Fyodorovna.

* * *

1 The coffins are so small.

2 My humblest apologies.

3 Are you ready to begin, Ivan Romanovitch?

_My sincerest thanks to everyone who has read, watched and favorites. _


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